


Lips

by GuardianofFun



Series: FrUK-ing Angst [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: England is in love, M/M, War, short and kinda sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-12
Updated: 2015-11-12
Packaged: 2018-05-01 05:20:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5193725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GuardianofFun/pseuds/GuardianofFun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Francis has the most beautiful lips. They will be the last thing Arthur sees, so help him God.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lips

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't very long, it's something I found while clearing up my laptop that I decided to fix up and stick on here. It's nothing really, just one of the few times Arthur will admit to actually loving Francis. All in his own head, of course. He's such a bastard.

His lips are so beautiful, Arthur can spot hem a mile off, even contorted into a scream as the blade rips through Arthur’s chest. He looks down and watches the blood bubble, but it looks nothing like Francis’ pretty pink lips so he looks back up and wills him to smile, sending his own grin flashing across the battlefield. It’s all just ringing in his ears at this point, and the ground is much closer than it was before. Yet he still looks for those lips, because they make the most beautiful sight as he screams his name.

Mud tastes awful in his mouth, enough to make him gag, and as his lips brush the ground he groans in pain. With a squelch and a pop the blade is ripped from his back, and then a boot catches his chin, whipping his head up to an uncomfortable angle and sending vibrations through his face, shattering his jaw into pieces. How sad, he thinks - now he can’t kiss those pretty French lips. The pretty French lips that faked an accent well enough to join him in the British ranks, persuaded by false papers too. Lips that smile for him as Francis shakes his head and says ‘ _but of course I’d fight with you_ ’. He thinks of Francis lips as his eyes stare across the muddy and shrapnel-filled field. It distracts from the pain in his head and the boots on his back.

Somehow, by some crazy miracle, they drag his body from the field when it’s over. There’s still air in his lungs, even if the man inside is nowhere to be found. He can breath, just. He sleeps. Lucky, he thinks many months later, in his obliviousness to them piecing him back together; bandaging ribs, repairing his jaw and sewing up the holes in his heart. Still though, he sleeps, and his dreams are few and far between but when he does dream, it’s those lips again. Lips on him in the dead of night, letting slip whispers in that sweet voice. Lips on him in summer, the taste of ice cream still present. Lips on him in the empty hospital room, wet with tears.

Those lips are his reason for living, he decides. So he tries to wake up.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope this was at least not boring, haha!


End file.
